I saw a grown man weeping the other day. Sitting in his hospital bed, face bathed in the late morning sun rays. He had clenched his jaw and remained stoic for several days throughout all of this, but finally the reality was too much.
A paper lay on the tray table before him. We'd spoken about that paper at length over the last several days, but today something clicked. Those words typed clearly across the front of it -- Do Not Rescuscitate and Do Not Intubate -- were only in two dimensions but on this day something about them rose up mightily with gnashing teeth in three dimensions. And despite his prior attempts to avoid it, that 8 x 11 sheet stubbornly awaited his signature. It was the last step before he'd leave for hospice care.
"This means I am leaving to go and die. No matter how I spin it, that's what it means."
And what do you say to that? It was true. With hospice care, all the focus would be on his comfort and his symptoms. The people there have committed their careers to doing just that, but he was right. Hospice is something for people nearing the end of life. Yes, he was right.
"I wish so bad that this disease was not trying so hard to shorten your life. But even if it has its way with the time part, we can win over how that time is spent. We can make that transition easier."
And that's when he did it. He picked up the pen with his hand wobbling and scrawled his signature across the bottom. Done.
The pen fell from between his fingers and his body began to tremble. Like some kind of volcano he vibrated until hot, fresh tears erupted from his eyes like lava. Each burst punctuated by baritone moaning; I grabbed his arm and did my best to be of comfort.
And so. I sat there and he wept. Between his sobs he spoke such simple truths:
"I just have so much I still wanted to do."
"I'm going to miss seeing my grandbabies grow up."
"I don't want to go home yet."
But this call was not his to make. It wasn't mine either.
So on this day, I just held his hand and patted his cheeks with tissue. I stared out of the window, marveling at the irony of autumn and the metaphor wrapped into watching seemingly perfect leaves softly breaking away from limbs. Still beautiful enough to stay on trees but for whatever reason have come to the end of their time. Just like those multicolored falling leaves, this decision was out of our hands.
I looked back at him and squeezed his hand tight. It was the only thing I had left.
"We're here for you, okay? We are."
And that was the last thing I said to him that day. Because at this point I knew I couldn't stop him from falling to the earth. But I could at least help him find a soft place to land.
***
